


Form 9217-SexHar

by faeleverte



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Getting Together, M/M, Masturbation, Oblivious Clint Barton, Oblivious Phil Coulson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:12:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SHIELD has a lot of variations of the Sexual Harassment form. Sometimes they aren't necessary. Years before the New York Invasion, Agent Phil Coulson and Specialist Clint Barton have gone from being teammates to friends. Pity that isn't what either of them wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Form 9217-SexHar

**Author's Note:**

> With a Million and One thanks to Selana for her wonderful Beta-ing and nudging and occasional forcing me to write. Without you, they never would have gotten there, and I would have been doomed to write lonely shower scenes for the rest of their natural lives.

It was one of those days when nothing worked quite the way it should. Yeah, Barton had not gotten enough sleep the night before (or for the several thousand nights before that one). And, yes, there had not been enough coffee in the pot of good stuff (or “mud,” as Natasha called it) in the employee lounge. And Coulson’s office door was closed, which meant none of his coffee was available either. But none of that explained the funk. He had almost missed a bullseye that morning. And it was an easy one, too, just a moving target ninety degrees to his left with a whole eight-tenths of a second to make the shot. Not the kind of thing where he should be sloppy, no matter how little sleep or how caffeine-deprived. 

Barton unlocked his room with a flurry of fingers over the keypad and slammed the door shut behind him. Crossing the room in five long strides, he smashed his bow case and quiver onto the bed with enough force to make himself feel guilty.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered, stroking his hand over the hard black of the case.

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t mean much in the immediate aftermath of abuse,” a voice spoke out of the silence.

“Hey, Natasha,” Barton answered without turning. He had long since gotten past twitching when she did her appearing out of thin air magic trick. Besides, he knew that trick, too. “I think my girl will forgive me. She loves me more than you do, and she knows I won’t do it again.”

“She must love you, because she didn’t turn around and put an arrow in your eye after that shot earlier,” Natasha said. He turned to find the red-headed assassin curled on the loveseat that functioned as his only comfortable seating and also, most nights, his bed. She had obviously been dozing before he entered, judging by his blanket bunched around her shoulders and the tangles in her hair, but her eyes were bright and alert. "You almost missed."

“Budge up,” he told her, toeing off his boots as he crossed the room. She smashed herself against the plasticine vinyl of the seatback to make room for Barton to lie down in front of her. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders as he settled in, and she wiggled to create some space to keep from being crushed.

“So what’s wrong?” she asked. “You’ve been in a mood since you got back from Phnom Penh yesterday. Did something happen over there you forgot to tell me about?”

“Nope,” he said. “Just routine. Except that I learned why Sitwell and Coulson won’t play poker with Halliwell anymore. She is... She just really is.”

“Oh, you were with Halliwell,” Natasha said. Her fingers traced tiny circles on Barton’s t-shirt, inching from his shoulder down to his chest as she stretched around him. “That explains it.”

“That explains what?” Barton asked, relaxing in spite of himself at her touch. 

“You’re always like this when you’ve been out without Coulson,” she said. 

“Like what?”

“Uncentered,” she answered. “And since he isn’t back from that World Security Council thing in South Africa, you haven’t been able to get your focus back yet.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barton grumbled. He folded his arms across his chest tightly, dislodging her gentle fingertips. His knees drooped off the front of the tiny seat, so he stretched his legs, letting his feet trail onto the floor. “Coulson has nothing to do with my mood.”

But he knew that was a lie. It wasn’t coffee that sent him to Coulson’s office first thing that morning. He had been hoping to go over his mission, their own personal debrief that would let him tell all the jokes he’d been storing, share his observations on Halliwell’s poker skills, maybe brag just a little bit about the shot he had taken. His bad mood had settled over him as soon as he had seen that there was no light under the door. 

“Is this some unsuspected subdrop thing?” Natasha asked. She slithered up to sling her body on top of Barton’s side, letting her weight roll him to his back. He draped his legs over the arm of the loveseat, and she curled onto his chest and stomach like an oversized cat. He unconsciously began to stroke her hair, rubbing the bone behind her ear. She sighed, closed her eyes, and rested her cheek against his collarbone, face pressed under his chin.

“Tasha, if you think I’m bent that way,” he said, a small smile creeping across his face, “then you really weren’t paying attention in Budapest.”

“So, what then?” she asked, sitting up and straddling his hips, hands pressed hard against his chest. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barton repeated. He reached up to catch her shoulders with both hands, pulling her back against his chest. “Time for a nap?”

“No,” she said, forcing herself out of his grasp. She stood and dug the blanket from out of the crack between the seat and back cushions and gave it a careless toss across his body. “But if you don’t get one, no one will want to be around you. And a shower. First order of business when you wake up.”

He tried to scowl at her, but the expression somehow slipped into a sleepy smile, and then the door was latching behind her, and his eyes dropped shut. 

He woke up two hours later feeling less out-of-sorts, but confused to hear strange ticking sounds. Rain? How was he hearing rain in here? Hurricanes against the tiny window barely made an audible noise. Not the shower. Wait. Someone was in his room.

Barton rolled to his feet, got his leg tangled in the blanket and toppled back onto the loveseat.

“Good morning,” Coulson said. He sat at the tiny desk in the corner, laptop open, with his fingers clattering over the keys. It sounded like raindrops, and the comparison made Barton smile. He liked rain. “Sleep well? You seemed to be doing so, since I’ve been in here more than an hour, and you never even moved.”

“Wha... how did you... why...” Barton started his question several different ways then gave up. “Glad you made it back,” he finally said to Coulson’s back.

Coulson tapped a few more keys, pressed enter with a flourish and finally turned around. 

“Natasha said you needed to see me about something?” he made it a question, eyebrows raised, face calm and giving nothing away. "Anything wrong?"

“No, I was just craving coffee,” Barton said with a grin. Coulson smiled back, the slightest lift to the corners of his lips. I was craving that look, Barton thought, managing to keep a thought from popping straight out of his mouth for a change. He fought to keep his face unchanged under the wave of panic that swept through him as realization hit him: it was the lack of Coulson that had him so twisted all day. 

“I need a shower,” Barton said hoarsely, pulling the blanket away from his legs and scrambling to his feet. He ducked into the tiny bathroom and swung the door shut, engaging the lock and resting his back against the painted metal. SHIELD bathrooms were made to double as safe rooms, and Barton really felt the need for safety. Could he be... Was this... He was not attracted to Coulson. No. They were friends. Close friends, even. Of course he missed his friend, his handler, his partner. The flutter in his gut had nothing to do with that little smile. He'd just missed breakfast. Hunger pang. But, goddamn, that smile...

Barton shoved off the wall and hurried to strip and get under the powerful spray of hot water. His accommodations might be small, but SHIELD had the best water pressure and the best hot water, by volume and temperature. Concentrate on showering. That was a good idea.

***

Coulson watched the door slam shut and sighed. He didn’t know why he was sitting at Barton’s desk, finishing his reports. Natasha had said Barton wanted to see him but was taking a nap. At the time, it seemed logical to override the security codes, slip inside and try to get something done while he waited. Looking back, it was probably creepy in a form 9217SexHar-12 kind of way. The thought that Barton wanted to see him had obviously gotten him thinking with... not his brain. Three years, and he still hadn’t managed to get his head on straight when confronted with the reality of a hot archer with a smart mouth and remarkably attractive buttocks. Of course Barton was wanting coffee. It was their routine: separate operations always ended with them in Coulson’s office, laughing over all the inside jokes they hadn’t been able to share on their private comm line. 

“Friendship, Phil,” Coulson murmured to himself. He closed his laptop and shoved it in the bag hanging from the back of the chair. He pulled the notepad on the desktop over, pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and scribbled a note to leave in the precise center of the desk. On the way out, he allowed himself one last longing glance toward the sound of running water behind the closed bathroom door.

***

Barton leaned his head back, closing his eyes to let the water play over his face. Coulson had been in his room. Coulson had come into his room as he slept, and Barton had not even noticed. Coulson had sat at his desk, poking on his computer, and Barton had not even flinched. That had to mean something. The only other person he could sleep deeply around was Natasha. Yeah, okay, so Barton had sometimes slept on missions when Coulson was on watch, but that was there. And he had never been so far asleep around the man as to miss something like a door opening. 

The blanket. It had to be the blanket. It smelled like Natasha, thanks to her nap on his mini-sofa. His brain had linked the smell of Natasha to sounds in the room. That was it.

But Natasha never made a sound when she moved. Ever.

Not that Coulson did either, which was just one more reason that Barton... No. Stop. End that train of thought. Coulson was... Coulson. His friend. His best friend, outside of the weird sibling thing he had with Natasha (which stopped being a sibling thing when they were having sex, but that hadn’t happened in at least a year). But, damn it was nice to wake up to that suit over those shoulders. Not that Barton knew a damn thing about clothing, outside of what was comfortable and what didn’t get in the way when he had work to do. But those suits Coulson wore: they were nice on the eyes. And Barton had been close enough to touch them a few times - granted, mostly while there were bullets and blood and other distractions - and they were nice under his fingers, didn’t snag his callouses, soft against his palm. And that one heady time, when Coulson had cradled a wounded Barton against his shoulder, holding him almost tenderly as he carried him out of a burning building, that suit was so nice against his cheek. He still felt bad for bleeding all over it.

“What the fuck, Barton,” he told himself. “You are not a fifteen year old girl. Stars out of eyes. Rub one off, let it go, and get back out there before Coulson figures out you’re jerking off with him just in the next room.” And that thought had him leaning against the wall, biting hard on the butt of his hand, trying not to scream Coulson's name as he came.

He lathered up and rinsed off as quickly as he could, hoping the shaking in his legs would settle down before he left the bathroom. He even took a few extra moments to find a comb for his hair, rather than just shoving it back with his hands, trying to get himself calm and collected. And then he realized he would have to face Coulson in nothing but a towel in order to get clothes out of the closet. Fuck. Well, not the first time.

Barton opened the door, trying for breezy casual, and then was hit by a wave of disappointment when he found the room empty. He dropped the towel on the floor just outside the bathroom and headed to the closet, detouring when he saw the note on the desk. He picked it up and read, “Picking up lunch - be right back. C.”

Which, of course, is when the door opened to readmit Coulson, now carrying a stack of boxes from the cafeteria. 

***

Coulson was suddenly more grateful for the SHIELD training that made emotional responses completely ignorable than he had ever been before. His ability to resist torture, emotional manipulation, and his own body’s sudden urge to sit up and beg served him well as he simply looped an ankle around the door to kick it shut behind him. He had seen Barton naked before. He’d gotten Barton naked before, technically-speaking. But there was always blood or dirt or emotional exhaustion or something else blunting the effect of that much of his skin. This time, though...

Barton stood there, back toward the door, chiseled, scarred shoulders still damp from his shower. Coulson could even smell his shampoo, and damn if that didn't make his knees weak, too. He resisted the urge to make a smart comment and walked over to set the food cartons on the desk.

"If you'd knocked, sir," Clint said over his shoulder as he walked to the closet, "I'd have been dressed for company."

"Sorry, Barton," Coulson answered. "Guess I was just in a hurry for today's delicious... Whatever the hell this is. According to the menu board, it's meatloaf, but I've never seen meatloaf that's runny before."

"Do we have to eat it?" Barton asked. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a dark purple T-shirt. "We could go out for lunch."

Coulson opened the top box to poke at the greyish mass that was theoretically mashed potatoes. The slop was starting to mix together, and, although he was fairly certain it was just his imagination that was making it heave and glurp, he wasn’t really willing to take a chance.

"I don't believe this is meatloaf, actually,” Coulson said, “so, yes. Lunch out is a good plan."

***

Barton watched Coulson rub his hands together with glee when the waitress set the heaping plate on the table. Seriously, how cute was that! Giddy over meatloaf. And he'd never had Barton's meatloaf. And wow, that sounded dirty in Barton's head, and he hoped it wouldn't come out of his mouth.

"You think you're excited about food now, but you have yet to try my meatloaf," Barton said. Dammit, Clint, he added to himself, shut up.

Coulson lifted both eyebrows. "Barton," he said, "I'm not sure SHIELD medical is equipped to deal with the after effects of your cooking." 

"That's it," Barton said. "Friday night, seven sharp. Your place. I'm cooking."

“My place?” Coulson asked, picking up his fork. “How do you know I have a kitchen?”

“Please,” Barton replied, scooping up his burger in both hands and taking a large bite. “Ca’ imagi’ you wi’ou’ a kishen,” he spoke around his food.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Barton,” Coulson said, shaking his head as he scooped up a bite of meatloaf with a dab of mashed potatoes.

Barton swallowed hugely. “Yes, dad,” he said with a smirk.

Shit. No. Not dad. Please not dad. Sir. Boss. Lover, maybe? Barton felt his ears go red, so he focused on his plate and concentrated on devouring his burger.

***

Dad. Great. A father figure. Just what Coulson needed to add to his guilt about that dream he had on the flight home. Not like it didn’t make sense, what with the age difference and all. No way someone with the sex appeal - and sexual conquests - of Clint Barton would be salivating over some pencil-pushing desk jockey. But he would be in Phil’s kitchen Friday, and, hey, friendship was something, right? Better to have that than nothing. Right?

Coulson went back to his lunch, which suddenly seemed quite tasteless.

***

Friday dinner didn’t happen. Thursday morning, a mission came in, and Coulson and Barton found themselves on a plane with a grouchy Natasha and four junior agents, heading for a location Barton’s clearance wouldn’t identify. He sat on the floor of the cargo plane, checking and rechecking his bow and trying not to sneak glances at Coulson’s ass. Coulson was leaning over the shoulder of a junior, talking quietly and calmly, trying to get her steady for her first field mission.

“You could just walk over there and grab a handful,” Natasha said, dropping down beside him. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barton said, hunching his shoulders and scowling. He seemed to be saying that to her a lot recently.

“You look like a toddler watching a candy counter,” Natasha told him. She nodded toward Coulson. “He really wouldn’t object, you know.”

“And if I would object?” Barton asked, glancing up at her.

“Then you’re an idiot who doesn’t know how to read your own libido,” she said. She leaned over to give him a peck on the cheek and went to join Coulson. Barton watched her whisper something to Coulson and then drop onto the bench beside the junior. She said something, and the younger woman smiled weakly.

***

“Barton is shaky,” Natasha whispered in Coulson’s ear. She nodded at the junior. “I’ve got this.”

Coulson straightened, looked over his shoulder at Barton, and started walking across to him. He should stay with the junior. It was his job to stay with the junior. But Barton...

“Agent?” Coulson said, curling down as if it were completely normal to settle on the floor in a three-piece suit. “Having a problem?”

“No, sir,” Barton said without looking over at him. “You?”

You’re not wrapped in my arms, Coulson thought. He ignored the rush of heat that went straight to his groin at that thought. “Nope.”

Wow. That was clever. Way to keep the conversation going, Phil.

“I’m... I’m going to go check over the files again,” Coulson said. And try to get far enough away to quit staring at your bare arms, he added in his mind. He scrambled to his feet without any of his usual grace and scurried away.

***

Nope? Since when did perfectly-calm-cool-collected-and-grammatically-correct-Coulson say “nope?” Barton watched as Coulson flipped through a briefcase. Movements jerky. Shoulders shifting uncomfortably under the jacket. Hands... And Barton lost his train of thought, staring at those rather large hands, capable, strong, calloused. 

“Barton,” Natasha called across the plane. “Your mouth is open.”

***

Coulson sat in the grimy cell, fuming. He glanced at his watch. Seven pm sharp, New York time. He was supposed to be on a date. No. Not a date. He was supposed to be having supper with his best friend. His best friend who also happened to be the most attractive man he knew. His best friend who was going to cook for him, and who was maybe going to spend the evening. Coulson closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall and pictured what might have happened.

Barton would cook... steaks. Go with it. Steak. And baked potatoes. And while the potatoes were baking, they’d sit on the couch, tv on but no one watching. They’d be telling jokes, and Barton would stop talking. A flush would crawl up his cheeks, and Coulson would look over, eyes focused on the way Barton’s teeth were worrying at his bottom lip. And it would be the most natural thing in the world to loop an arm around those broad shoulders, to lean in slowly. Barton would look up and lift one hand to cup Coulson’s cheek, pulling his face in until their lips met. It’d be a slow build up from there, until they were both naked, Barton grinding against Coulson’s hip, driving him into the couch, making them both moan. Coulson would arch off the couch, desperate, and Barton would oblige by sliding down his body, mouth leaving hot trails of kisses and bites, and then his lips would close around Coulson’s burning cock...

In the cell at the back of some forgotten warehouse in a forsaken corner of the world, Coulson unbuttoned his slacks and pressed his palm against his erection, biting his lips to keep from crying out the name that burned into his mind. His hips bucked, and he couldn’t completely contain the groan that slipped out as he came, picturing spiky blond locks and wicked blue-green eyes above muscled shoulders that were made for claw marks.

Several minutes later, he panted his way back to sanity. Great. Now he had a mess, no way to clean up, and he could barely breathe. Well, it’d been as good a way to pass the time as any he’d thought of while in captivity before. He slumped sideways on the narrow board that served as his bunk and closed his eyes. At least he was relaxed enough to get some sleep now.

***

Outside the cell, Barton stared through the tiny grate in the door, wide-eyed and holding his breath. Phil Coulson, Agent’s Agent, hardcore BAMF had taken in his surroundings, contemplated being tortured in the morning, and calmly decided to jerk himself off and go to sleep. That was... that was fucking hot, was what that was. Barton swallowed hard, trying to still the shaking in his hands as he fished a set of tiny, specialized tools out of a pocket. He was going to pick this lock, go into that room, and pin that man to the fucking wall. He was going to rip the buttons off that tailored vest and perfect shirt, and he was going to lick every square inch of skin he could get his tongue on. He would bend Coulson over the end of that bunk and... 

Shit. Get a grip, Clint, he told himself. Coulson had probably just gone for the physical relief, trying to find a way to get himself to sleep, trying to relax. Tension. That’s all it was. There was nothing sensual about it. He hadn’t even built himself up for it - just reached in, a couple quick tugs, and then off to sleep. 

Would offering to lick his palm clean be completely inappropriate? Did Coulson keep a copy of form 9217SexHar-28 on his computer? Barton took another deep breath before reaching for the lock. He tried to tell his dick to behave, but it wasn’t listening. He untucked his shirt before he finished with the tumblers. Still a little snug, but, hopefully, less obvious.

The door opened, and Coulson sat up instantly, hand instinctively reaching for the gun that should have been settled on his ribs. He froze when Barton stepped into the room. 

“Hey, boss,” Barton said, leaning his shoulder against the door. “Miss me?”

“Just wondered what was taking so long,” Coulson replied. Barton watched as Coulson tucked in his shirt, fastened his slacks, and buttoned his jacket. “Time to go?”

“I was ready three hours ago, sir,” Barton said, trying to keep his eyes on Coulson’s face. “Sort of lost something important, and it took us a bit of time to find it, though.”

“Sorry about that,” Coulson replied, tucking his hands in his pockets and sauntering over to examine Barton’s face. “I wasn’t expecting things to explode. You took shrapnel over your eye and didn’t let anyone bandage it, didn’t you.” 

“Sorry, sir,” Barton answered with a crooked grin. “I was in a hurry to find you.”

There was a silence between them that lasted a few seconds too long. Barton broke it by turning on his heel and starting up the hall. 

“We’ve secured the building, sir. Exit is this way.”

Barton heard Coulson’s steps hurry to catch up, and then felt a hand drop onto his shoulder. He turned.

“Barton... Clint...” Coulson said, standing far too near, “sorry about supper.”

“I’ll make it up to you, sir,” Barton answered. He forced himself to keep his hands still, to turn away. I’d rather have you for supper, he mouthed silently as he began walking away.

***

Coulson dropped his hand and started up the hall after Barton’s back, slower this time, letting some space build between them. He heaved a deep sigh, partly relief, partly some unidentifiable other emotion. If Barton had shown up five minutes sooner... Coulson shuddered. Imagine what the archer would have thought of that. Coulson in a cell, jerking off like some desperate perv. That would have gone over so well. 

“Hey, boss, I’m... Oh my god! You have a penis!” Barton would have said upon bursting in. 

And then the actual thought of Barton watching hit, and, dammit, if he didn’t feel a twitch at that. What, was he fifteen years old again when it came to Barton - no pun intended. Coulson rubbed his hand over his face and tried to turn off his thoughts. 

***

Saturday afternoon found Barton waking up on his loveseat, blanket tucked tightly around him and the lump of another person on his bed. He looked up at the empty bottle of rum on the windowsill and the mostly empty bottle of vodka beside it and groaned. The lump on the bed rustled slightly.

“God, Tash,” Barton said, flinging his arm across his eyes. “The dreams I had last night. You would not believe how fucking hot they were. Goddamnit, Coulson. All his fault.”

The blanket on the bunk shifted again.

“If I hadn’t seen him in there before I let him out, I wouldn’t...” he trailed off, dropped his arm and stared at the ceiling. “No. I would have. Fuck, Tasha. It’s every damn night. It’s been every damn night practically since I met him. I can distract myself, but I can’t forget. And it’s...”

And then a tiny thought inserted itself into Barton’s brain: Natasha was in medical last night, being treated for a bullet through her arm. Coulson had forced her into the bed, injected the morphine himself, held her down until she went limp and goofy. Coulson had collected the vodka from his desk drawer and followed Barton back to his room. And... 

Oh. Oh fuck. Form 9217SexHar-2 with a side order of Form 9217SexHar-30.

“Sir?” Barton said quietly.

“Agent Barton,” Coulson replied, muffled by the blanket. 

“I...”

“Yes,” Coulson replied. He sat up slowly, hair rumpled, blanket draped around his shoulders. They stared at each other in silence for a minute. “We can pretend that was the rum talking, and I’ll go ahead and go, okay?”

“You could take a shower first,” Barton answered. “I’m not moving yet.”

“I...” Coulson nodded. “I’ll do that.”

Barton squinted when Coulson made no move to get up. There was something going on... Oh. Wait. Barton made an exaggerated show of casual with a stretch and a yawn. 

“Gonna go back to sleep for a bit,” he said, rolling over and tucking his knees against his belly, turning his back on the room. Maybe that would offer enough privacy for Coulson to get to the bathroom. He couldn’t be wearing much under that blanket. And then Barton had to shift his legs down to make space for what was rapidly going from morning wood to actual arousal.

He did manage to sneak a peak from the corner of his eye as Coulson hurried into the bathroom: nothing but a pair of startlingly red boxers, well-tented. 

***

Coulson suddenly realized his tactical error as he stood under the pounding rain of hot water. His pants were in the room with Barton. A Barton who had seen him masturbating in a cell. A Barton who had either been completely horrified or completely turned on. Coulson tried to remember exactly how Barton had described those dreams, but it was buried under a cloud of vodka and lust and shock and embarrassment. Had he called them hot? Had he really said that, or was that just what Coulson was wanting to hear. And, oh my god, Coulson was so hard, just thinking about the possibility of Barton being even mildly agreeable. 

He turned the hot water all the way off, gasped at the cold, and forced himself to stay under the stream until his erection flagged. He was not going to... self-pleasure in Barton’s shower. That would take him from creepy all the way to Form 9217-SexHar-1. And that was the kind of place from which there was no return.

***

Barton seriously did consider going back to sleep, but he was suddenly, completely, irrationally angry. Coulson had just blown him off. Barton had, albeit accidentally, confessed his true feelings for the other man, and Coulson had just brushed it away. There was no universe where that was okay. They were close, goddamnit, and close deserved some kind of discussion. Barton allowed himself one moment to appreciate the irony of being the person who was hoping for an adult discussion about anything, but he pushed away the humor and held onto his anger. Coulson was not getting out of this room without showing some kind of acknowledgement, some kind of empathy, some kind of something. If he wasn’t interested, fine, but he needed to be man enough to say it straight out. This avoidance bullshit was... bullshit.

Barton dragged himself off the couch (and, okay, it was best not to look directly at the sunlight in the window and perhaps he should try to keep from blinking, while he was at it) and found a pair of jeans. He ripped off his sweatpants, tugged on the jeans, thought better of trying to pull a shirt over his head, and sat down in the center of the loveseat, arms folded over his chest, waiting for Coulson to finish his shower.

***

Coulson was blue and shivering when he finally let himself out from under the water. He scrubbed over his skin with the towel, trying to get some feeling back in his extremities, but it did little good. He pulled his boxers back on, glad he’d had a moment to change clothes after the mission, remembering what had happened to the pair he was wearing the afternoon before. And that thought made him cringe. How could he go out there and face Barton after that? Knowing what Barton had seen. And, oh god, had he actually said “Clint” when he was coming? When Barton was watching through the door? And... wait... Why had it taken Barton so long to come into the room... if he’d been watching... 

Stop, Phil, he told himself. That way was madness. Just go out there. Don’t say anything. Maybe Barton really had gone back to sleep. Maybe it was just the rum talking.

And then he opened the door and found that same Barton sitting straight across from the bathroom door, arms folded over his chest, glaring at him. Coulson froze, unable to speak in the face of that much anger.

“Say something,” Barton said. His eyebrows were drawn together, and there was a curl to his lip, a snarl in his voice.

“Excuse me?”

“I said I have been having dreams about you, about sex with you, every damn night for the last seven years,” Barton said. He rose and stalked across the room, moving with the grace of an acrobat and the silence of an assassin. Coulson’s breath caught in his throat: that was absolutely beautiful. “I said I watched you jerk off in that cell yesterday. I would like to add that it was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. Now it’s your turn to say something. You don’t get to just ignore me that way. You’ve never ignored my feelings about any damn thing, from coffee to a target. So say something.”

Coulson opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He was shivering still, but he could not tell if that was from the shower or from the sudden and very confusing rush of emotions that hit him, all tangled together.

Barton was standing less than a foot away now, eyes smoldering and angry.

“If you’re not interested, then say you’re not interested,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Tell me something, but, goddamnit, Phil,” his voice broke on the name, “don’t just brush me off.”

“This needs coffee,” Coulson finally managed to choke out. His teeth chattered. “And pants. I really need pants.”

“You’re cold,” Barton said. He reached out to touch one cautious finger to Coulson’s cheek, and that gentle touch burned. Coulson leaned his face into it, a whisper of breath that might have been a moan escaping as Barton cupped his cheek with an entire hand. And then Coulson stopped thinking as Barton stepped closer, closing the gap between them, wrapping Coulson in his arms. “You’re freezing!” Barton exclaimed. 

Coulson let himself be led back to the bed, collapsing when Barton pressed him down to the mattress, and then he found his arms betraying him, reaching out for Barton’s body as the archer followed him down. They were wrapped in the blanket, in each other, in a serious haze of hangover-clouded lust. And if this was not the best damn thing that had ever happened to him, Coulson would... he’d think of something. Later. Right now, he was busy getting warm. So very, very warm.

***

Barton held on, trying not to lose his focus. He was just trying to keep this idiot from dying of hypothermia. Warming his partner... no, scratch that, “partner” was a dangerous word right now. He was just trying to warm his teammate. His boss. It was like hugging an ice cube. What the hell had Coulson been thinking, anyway? Cold shower, though?

“Dammit, Phil,” Barton sighed more than spoke. “Hitting yourself with that much cold so soon after waking up, and with your body temperature already off from trying to drink yourself into a coma last night. It’s a miracle you didn’t have a heart attack.”

The shivering turned to violent tremors, Coulson’s whole body shaking against Barton’s chest. Barton sighed again and began rubbing his hands briskly along Coulson’s upper arms, over his shoulders, and down his back. He tried not to enjoy the sensation of the skin under his fingertips, the contraction of those really impressive biceps, the goosebumps that stood out across a muscled, heavily-scarred back, but he couldn’t actually lie to himself: this felt good.

“Th...th...th..tha...that’s nice,” Coulson stuttered, his fingers spasming against Barton’s ribs. It tickled, and Barton flinched away with an entirely out-of-character shriek. 

“T...t...t...tick..klish...” murmured Coulson, trying to tighten his grip, to keep his hands from twitching. “Th...that’s something to remem...remember.”

The shaking seemed to be getting under control a bit, but Barton didn’t feel terribly inclined to let go. He liked the sensation of Coulson’s muscular chest against his own, the feeling of those arms around his ribs, clutching at his back, the way Coulson’s knee tucked between his own, and the spot where Coulson’s nose pressed into the side of his neck, face tucked half-under Barton’s head. He wasn’t exactly sure where this was going, but he was going to hold on as long as Coulson would let him. 

“I’m your direct supervisor,” Coulson said suddenly, muffled by Barton’s shoulder. “Together, we make one of the smoothest-operating teams in SHIELD. If we were to compromise that...”

None of that was the same as “I’m not interested,” Barton noted. He locked his arms tighter around Coulson’s broad, battered shoulders and buried his nose in the dark, thinning hair. Coulson wriggled, trying to burrow closer. 

“I have tried to keep from ever forcing you into anything,” Coulson said. Barton tried to listen, but his ears almost shut down when one of those huge hands rested on that sensitive spot just above the waistband of his jeans, fingers circling. “I don’t want a relationship where you just give in to everything because I’m your boss. I don’t want you to feel trapped.”

Barton didn’t know where to go with that; he wasn’t good at talking about feelings. But what he was good at - well, when his voice didn’t have an answer, he’d always let his actions speak for him.

He levered his body to roll them both until he was lying on top of Coulson, arms still squeezing tightly, bodies locked together. He went limp across the body under him, letting his weight press them both into the mattress. 

“Sir,” he said into Coulson’s neck, feeling hands begin tracing the line of a deep scar that ran from Barton’s hip to the opposite shoulder. “If you think I won’t tell you when to fuck off when I need to tell you to fuck off, you have another think coming.” 

“Barton...” Coulson said, breathy, sounding wrecked. “I...”

“Fuck it,” Barton said, and he shifted to cover Coulson’s mouth with his own, fingers digging in as their tongues met. He moaned loudly to show his appreciation for the sudden sting of nails scraping down his back and bucked his hips, his earlier erection back with added heat. 

“Barton,” Coulson gasped, breaking the kiss. He pulled his arms away, turned his face. “Clint!”

Barton went still on top of him. He knew this was the moment that would make or break it. If Coulson said no now, it was final. But at least he’d have this one memory to file away, to play back for every goddamned shower he took for the rest of his fucking life. Well, nonfucking life, because there didn’t seem a lot of point to sex if it didn’t involve the man under him right now.

“Phil,” he said, letting the name slide across his lips, enjoying the taste of it. He untangled his arms, braced his hands on the bed and heaved his torso up. Coulson kept his face turned away, not meeting his eyes. “Is this or is this not something you want? You tell me no, and it’s over. I’m not saying that wouldn’t hurt like hell, but I’d be okay, I’d get over the hurt. Nothing would change.” Clearly a lie, but the kind of lie that had to be told at times like these.

“Of course I want this, want you,” Coulson snapped, finally looking up. His pupils were blown wide, the grey-blue irises almost invisible. “I’m not blind, stupid, or, contrary to rumors around here, a robot. But I’m also not some lust-addled teenager, taking whatever is offered, damn the consequences. And there would be consequences. It could compromise us both, missions, make it harder to see you in danger, change the calls I make... It could...”

“Sir,” Barton said in a low, deep drawl. He felt the shiver that went through the body under his. He kept his voice low, rough. “There is no way I could get more bent about you being in danger. If caring about you is compromising, then I’ve been compromised this whole damn time.” 

He bent his elbows just enough to rub his cheek against the scratch of Coulson’s morning shadow, let his lips trace the line of jaw. One of Coulson’s hands lifted off the pillow to stroke over Barton’s hair. 

“Clint,” Coulson huffed, and Barton felt him arch up, pressing their chests together. “Please...”

“Is that ‘please, no,’ or ‘please, yes?’” Barton asked, trembling with the effort of not just dropping down to wrap his arms and legs around the body under him and just grind.

“I don’t fucking know anymore,” Coulson whispered. He closed his eyes, his face pinched with stress. Barton held himself up with one arm, freeing the other hand to smooth the deep groove between Coulson’s eyebrows.

“Phil,” Barton said. Then, with more force, “Phil, eyes on me.”

Coulson’s eyes snapped open, and, damn, if it wasn’t quite hot to be the one barking orders for a change. 

“We’ll stop,” Barton said. “Right now, let’s just... take a minute, okay?”

He shifted his weight until he could stretch out on his side on the bed. Coulson rolled with him, clinging, needy. Barton tucked one arm under the other’s head, pulling him close, just holding, trying to calm his own racing heartbeat. Wow, Barton getting to be the together one twice in one day. That had never happened before.

“It’s not the physical attraction,” Barton said, only slightly surprised to find his mouth running. “I mean, it is that, too. Oh my god how it is physical. Do you know what your jaw does to me? And your ass in those tailored slacks. And your shoulders. And hands... Wait... What was I talking about? Oh, yes, the attraction. Your voice does... things to me. And I love the way you don’t laugh at my jokes, but you never tell me to shut up, either. And...”

“Hey, Clint,” Coulson said, one corner of his mouth quirking. “Shut up and go back to the part where you’re kissing me.”

“Fuck, yes,” Barton breathed. “Nope, wait.”

Coulson groaned in exasperation. “Now what?” he sighed.

“This is the point where you make a decision,” Barton said. “I don’t want regrets after this. No weirdness. Nothing. Because I’m really hoping this isn’t a one-time deal, and I’m really hoping we still do coffee and bullshitting after missions.”

“Yes,” Coulson said, suddenly sounding more like himself. “Yes to all of that. And, well, yes.”

Barton didn’t realize he was moving until he was back on top, Coulson pressed into the bed, legs twisted together and hips moving, erections grinding together. Fingers tangled in hair, nails gouged into skin, and they were both making enough noise that Barton wondered when Agent Blakely next door would start beating on the wall. He looped his fingers through the waistband of those dark red boxers, allowing himself one moment to be amazed by that much color on HIS Coulson, Lord of the Dark Suits, and then he stripped them off in one easy movement. Coulson was unbuttoning the fly on his jeans, and Barton didn’t remember ending up on his back, head hanging off the foot of the bed, but he didn’t actually care how he got there. He was suddenly damned in favor of his position when Coulson’s tongue found one of his nipples. 

***

Coulson wasn’t expecting that sound to come out of Barton. If that was the result of a tongue, what would teeth do? And my, wasn’t that a delicious sound for an answer. He leaned back to drag the jeans off Barton’s legs, and it suddenly hit him. They were naked. In bed. Together. 

“Are we both absolutely certain I’m not dreaming?” he asked hoarsely. “You did get me out of that cell yesterday, right?”

Barton levered him back onto the bed and dropped on him once again. Coulson had the fleeting thought that he was going to end up with an archer-shaped bruise from his ankles to his chest, and then he decided he did not mind that idea. 

“Yes, sir,” Barton said. He dragged his teeth up the side of Coulson’s neck, pausing once to suck a hickey that would barely be covered by a shirt collar. “I got your ass out of there so I could bring it home and...”

“And what, Agent?” Coulson, twisting to bite the muscular shoulder, making sure it left a mark that the uniform would not cover.

“Bring it home and fuck it, sir,” Barton answered. He sounded a bit breathy, but his hands were steady as one of them cradled the back of Coulson’s neck, the other trailed down ribs, feeling the knots of healed breaks and a series of wide, flat scars left by a luckily-dodged hail of bullets. 

Coulson twisted to get one leg free, wrapping it over Barton’s hips and arching to rub their erections together. They both groaned again, and Coulson started seeing sparks.

“Clint,” he panted, trying to steady his breathing, get some semblance of control. “Please tell me you have lube somewhere nearby, because I am not letting go of you, and I’m not going to last much longer.”

“Don’t want to go for two?” Barton asked with that cocky smirk. He reached to the head of the bed, dug around under the mattress and came up with a bottle.

“Barton,” Coulson said dryly, “please remember my age. Also, as a side note, I’d like to mention that it’s been awhile since I bottomed.” 

Barton slowed the grinding of his hips, slowed everything down, dropping the bottle on the bed and cupping Coulson’s cheek. 

“Do you wanna..?” Barton trailed off and made a vague gesture with his shoulder. 

“Nah,” Coulson answered, appreciating the concern, but really much more interested in just getting on with things. “I’m actually forced to admit it’s been awhile since I’ve had sex at all. At least, in company.” He felt his cheeks warm at the thought of the day before. “At least, when I knew I had company.”

“So what were you thinking?” Barton asked. He sat up, picking up the lube and spreading a generous dollop over the fingers of his left hand. He trailed them down the sides of Coulson’s erection, barely brushing, teasing. “In the cell, I mean. Was it just a good way to get to sleep, or what?” Slick fingers along the creases of his thighs. 

Coulson closed his eyes and lifted his chin, sucking in a deep breath. He let it out slowly as those gentle fingers slid behind his balls, pressing lightly, circling, stroking. He stretched both arms over his head to grip the bars of the bed frame bolted to the wall. “You,” he whispered. “I was imagining what might have happened when you were at my house, cooking me supper...”

The tip of one finger probed, and Coulson hissed, arching off the bed. 

“And?” Barton said. His voice was rough. The hand resting on Coulson’s thigh was shaking, and if that wasn’t the hottest thing: He, Phil Coulson, had managed to shake the legendary steadiness of Hawkeye, the Greatest Shot in the World. 

“And this,” Coulson said, gasping as the fingertip turned into one long stroke of the entire digit. “Fuck,” he gasped, eyes flying open. “Your hands are even better in reality than fantasy.”

“Wait,” Barton said, gently pressing a second finger in. “So you were sitting in that cell thinking of me reaming your ass? And that was enough to get you off in two quick strokes?”

“I spent some time on that... on that fantasy...” Coulson said, voice breaking as the tip of one of those capable fingers brushed his prostate and he saw stars. “Barton... Clint... I... Oh, god.”

“Good?” Barton asked, stroking a little deeper, spreading his fingers a bit more on each slide out. 

“So good,” Coulson answered. He could hear how breathy his voice was, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind being in such a condition. “So, so good.”

A third finger was inserted, and the pleasure was blunted with a stripe of pain. Coulson closed his eyes again and sucked in another deep breath. 

“I gotcha,” Barton said, leaning down to press his lips to Coulson’s stomach. He kept his hand still, trailing a streak of kisses along the firm abs, finding a knife scar and licking it in his explorations. “You okay?”

“So much more than okay,” Coulson replied. He forced one hand free of the headboard and stroked it over Barton’s blond hair. “Get on with it, Specialist.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Barton breathed, and Coulson lost track of things for several minutes as he was stretched with just the right amount of pressure and Barton’s tongue swirled around abs and chest and hip. He sort of came to when he realized the fingers had been withdrawn, and Barton was swearing somewhere near his thigh.

“Wha’s matter?” Coulson asked, trying to reattach his head.

“Condom,” Barton growled. “All this, and I don’t have a goddamned condom.”

“I’ve seen your test results,” Coulson said, shoving himself up on his elbows. “Would you like to see mine? I’m clean.” Barton looked up, eyes dark, lustful, hopeful. “Clint, if we do this today, then that’s it for me. I want this, us. From here on, unless you want out. So, if it doesn’t freak you out...”

“Goddamn...” Barton said, eyes wide with shock or lust or both. “Okay, yes.”

“Then get up here and fuck me into this goddamned bed,” Coulson said, only a little shocked by his own choice of words. Barton flung himself up to devour Coulson’s mouth. 

Barton leaned back, carefully lifting one of Coulson’s legs to loop it over his arm. 

“Ready?” he asked, swaying his hips to stroke the tip of his cock along Coulson’s ass. He began moving with excruciating slowness, stopping every centimeter and breathing, eyes locked on Coulson’s. “Okay?” Barton would ask, and Coulson could only pant and nod. And then their hips met, and Coulson gasped out, “MOVE!”

Everything became white hot and sharp, jagged edges, pleasure and pain. Coulson was holding onto the headboard with one hand and one of Barton’s wrists with the other. He could feel Barton’s fingers biting into his hip, knew he’d have a bruise, and found himself looking forward to it. The more marks the better, something tangible. They slammed together, crying out with each thrust, building. It wasn’t long before Barton’s nails drew blood as his hips stuttered to a halt, head thrown back, shouting Coulson’s name as he came.

“One second,” Barton panted, dropping onto Coulson’s chest. “Let me catch my breath and then...”

A few moments later, Coulson discovered that “and then” was that Barton was even better with his tongue (and lips, and teeth, and throat) than anyone who had ever given him head before. Seconds, just seconds, and he was coming down Barton’s throat, fingers leaving defined prints along Barton’s shoulders.

“So that happened,” Barton said, crawling up Coulson’s body to kiss his throat and drop on top of him with bruising force. “If you didn’t feel so damn good, I’d have lasted longer. Next time...” 

Coulson chuckled and draped his arms across the limp form on his chest. They fell asleep, sticky, sore, tangled together, completely content. 

***

 

Barton swaggered to the cafeteria for supper wearing a too-tight wife-beater, knowing the bite marks on his arms and shoulders would draw attention. He was most proud of the one at the base of his throat where he had managed to prove Coulson wasn’t too old for two, after all. He was grinning by the time he got back to his room carrying four boxes.

“Lasagna tonight,” he said, holding up the boxes. “Salad, garlic bread, and it all actually looks like food for a change.”

Coulson nodded toward the desk with a small smile curling around his lips. There was a bottle of wine and two goblets that must have come from his office.

“You look completely debauched, Barton,” Coulson said. “It appears you have a new lover who really likes to bite.”

Barton just kept grinning maniacally all the way through supper.

***

Saturday night they discovered that Barton’s bed was not really made for two grown men to actually sleep on, so, in the wee hours, they took a cab to Coulson’s apartment. They sat in the back, holding hands and sneaking kisses like a pair of horny teenagers. Sunday was spent on the couch (and the bed, and in the shower, and goddamn, Coulson was the Energizer Fucking Bunny!), exploring and touching, tasting, and getting a feel for each other outside of SHIELD. Monday found them both dressed for work, sitting in Coulson’s office with coffee, going over their plans for the day. 

Natasha came in wearing a knowing smile. She leaned over Coulson at his desk, glancing at the shadow of a bruise just at the top edge of his collar. She hugged him, kissed his cheek, and then went around to give the same greeting to Barton.

“So you’ve finally worked that out, eh?” she said, filling her own mug from Coulson’s coffeepot. The two just grinned at her until she raised one eyebrow.

“You both look drunk,” she told them coldly.

“Tasha, you don’t...” Barton started.

She just gave him that flat look that always shut him up, and he sighed with relief. Even without sex, he’d miss her if she stopped showing up in his bed on the bad nights. 

“So everyone knows, then?” Coulson asked.

“Everyone knows Barton has someone,” she said. “But they all think it’s me, based on the depth of the bruises.” She sneered at the fingerprints on Barton’s bicep. “As if I could be that obvious.”

Coulson just grinned, positively grinned. Barton felt a stab of pride. He made that face, dammit. He was the one who broke through that thick layer of calm, collected secret agent. He felt the goofy grin crawling back up his own face.

“You two are ridiculous,” Natasha snapped, but her smile didn’t match her tone. “And if you both keep those expressions on your face, I will have to file a Form 9217SexHar-5.” She finished her coffee, set the mug back beside the pot, and slipped from the room.

Moments later, the alarm blared their team code, and both grins dropped away. Time to get back to work. Working together was almost as good as the sex.


End file.
